The Mammoth Book of Alternate Histories (5 page)

* * * *

17 April 1914

Lat. 13°15’ N, Long. 29°11 W

The week began with an extraordinary stroke of luck. Shortly after noon, poking through the wreck of a frigate called the
Ganymede,
we happened upon a wireless set, plus a petrol engine to supply it with power. In short order John Phillips and Harold Bride got the rig working. “Once again I have the ears of an angel,” enthused a beaming Phillips. “I can tell you all the gossip of a troubled and tumultuous world.”

Woodrow Wilson has been elected the 28th President of the United States. The Second Balkans War has ended with a peace treaty between Serbia and Turkey. Mahatma Gandhi, leader of the Indian Passive Resistance Movement, has been arrested. Pope Pius X has died, succeeded by Cardinal della Chiesa as Pope Benedict XV. Ernest Shackleton is headed for the Antarctic. The feisty suffragette Emmeline Pankhurst languishes in prison after attempting to blow up Lloyd George. Nickelodeon audiences have fallen in love with a character called the Little Tramp. A great canal through the Isthmus of Panama is about to open. The second anniversary of the
Titanic
disaster occasioned sermons, speeches, editorials and religious observances throughout the Western world.

Good Lord, has it been two years already? It seems only yesterday that I watched Mr Andrews unfurl his blueprint in the chartroom. So much has happened since then: the launching of the
Ada,
the consumption of Ismay and Murdoch, the reports of our collective demise, our decision to remain waterborne for the nonce, the birth of this republic - not to mention my marriage to the redoubtable Maggie.

Adaland continues to ply the Atlantic in a loop bounded on the north by the Tropic of Cancer and on the south by the Tropic of Capricorn. We last crossed the equator in late February. Mrs Wilde marked the event by organizing an elaborate masquerade ball reminiscent of the fabled Brazilian Carnaval. The affair was a huge success, and we shall probably do the same thing three months hence when we hit the line again.

At least once a week we find ourselves within hailing distance of yet another pesky freighter or presumptuous steamer. By paddling furiously and hoisting all sails - our spars now collectively carry ten thousand square feet - we always manage to outrun the intruder. In theory, thanks to our wireless rig, we have endured the last of these nerve-wracking chases, for Phillips and Bride can now sound the alarm well before we become objects of unwanted charity.

* * * *

2 September 1914

Lat. 25°48’S, Long. 33°16’ W

Against the dictates of reason, in defiance of all decency, with contempt for every Christian virtue, the world has gone to war. According to our wireless intercepts, the Western Front stretches a staggering four hundred and seventy-five miles across northern France, the Boche on one side, the Allies on the other, both armies dug in and defending themselves with machine guns. In my mind’s eye I see the intervening terrain: a no-man’s-land presided over by Death, now on holiday from Coleridge’s skeletal ship and reigning over a kingdom of muck, blood, bone, mustard gas and barbed wire, whilst Life-in-Death combs her yellow locks, paints her ruby lips, and sports with the boys in the trenches. Between 4 August and 29 August, Phillips informs me, 260,000 French soldiers died the most wretched, agonizing and pointless deaths imaginable.

“I was under the impression that, since the
Titanic
allegedly went down two years ago, self-delusion had lost favour in Europe,” Mrs Wilde remarked. “How does one account for this madness?”

“I can’t explain it,” I replied. “But I would say we now have more reason than ever to remain aboard the
Ada.”

Although the preponderance of the butchery is occurring thousands of miles to the northeast, the British and Germans have succeeded in creating a nautical war zone here in the tropics. Mr Phillips has inferred that a swift and deadly armoured fleet, under the command of Admiral Craddock aboard HMS
Good Hope,
has been prowling these waters looking for two German cruisers, the
Dresden,
last seen off the Brazilian state of Pernambuco, and the
Karlsruhe,
recently spotted near Curasao, one of the Lesser Antilles. If he can’t catch either of these big fish, Craddock will settle for one of the Q ships - merchant vessels retrofitted with cannons and pom-poms - that the Germans have deployed in their efforts to destroy British commercial shipping around Cape Horn. In particular Craddock hopes to sink the
Cap Trafalgar,
code name
Hilfskreuzer B,
and the
Kronprinz Wilhelm,
named for the Kaiser himself.

We are monitoring the Marconi traffic around the clock, eavesdropping on Craddock’s relentless patriotism. Two hours ago Mr Bride brought me a report indicating that the
Kronprinz Wilhelm
is being pursued by HMS
Carmania,
one of the British Q ships that recently joined Craddock’s cruiser squadron. Bride warns me that the coming fight could occur near our present location, about two hundred miles south of the Brazilian island of Trindade (not to be confused with the West Indies island of Trinidad). We would be well advised to sail far away from here, though in which direction God only knows.

* * * *

14 September 1914

Lat. 22°15’ S, Long. 29°52’ W

A dizzyingly eventful day. Approaching Trindade, we were abruptly caught up in the Great War, bystanders to a furious engagement between the
Carmania
and the
Kronprinz Wilhelm.
There is blood on our decks tonight. Bullets and shells have shredded our sails. From our infirmary rise the moans and gasps of a hundred wounded German and British evacuees.

I had never witnessed a battle before, and neither had any other Adaland citizens except Major Butt and Colonel Weir, who’d seen action in the Philippines during the Spanish-American War. “Dover Beach” came instantly to mind. The darkling plain, the confused alarms, the ignorant armies clashing by night, or, in this case, at noon.

For two full hours the armed freighters pounded each other with their 4.1-inch guns, whilst their respective supply vessels - each combatant boasted a retinue of three colliers - maintained a wary distance, waiting to fish the dead and wounded from the sea. On board the
Ada
, the children cried in terror, the adults bemoaned the folly of it all, and the dogs ran in mad circles trying to escape the terrible noise. With each passing minute the gap separating the
Carmania
and the
Kronprinz Wilhelm
narrowed, until the two freighters were only yards apart, their sailors lining the rails and exchanging rifle shots, a tactic curiously reminiscent of Napoleonic-era fighting, quite unlike the massed machine-gun fire now fashionable on the Western Front.

At first I thought the
Carmania
had got the worst of it. Fires raged along her decks, her bridge lay flattened by artillery shells, her engines had ceased to function, and she’d started to lower away. But then I realized the
Wilhelm
was fatally injured, her hull listing severely, her crew launching life-boats, her colliers drawing nearer the fray, looking for survivors. Evidently some shells had hit the
Wilhelm
below her waterline, rupturing several compartments. A North Atlantic iceberg could not have sealed her doom more emphatically.

Owing to the relentless explosions, the proliferating fires, the rain of bullets, and the general chaos, nearly three hundred sailors - perhaps three dozen from the
Carmania,
the rest from the
Wilhelm -
were now in the water, some dead, some wounded, most merely dazed. Fully half the castaways swam for the colliers and lifeboats of their respective nationalities, but the others took a profound and understandable interest in the
Ada.
And so it happened that our little republic suddenly found itself in need of an immigration policy.

Unlike the
Titanic
, the
Wilhelm
did not break in two. She simply lurched crazily to port, then slowly but inexorably disappeared. Throughout the sinking I consulted with the leaders of Parliament, and we soon reached a decision that, ten hours later, I am still willing to call enlightened. We would rescue anyone, British or German, who could climb aboard on his own hook, provided he agreed to renounce his nationality, embrace the founding documents of Adaland, and forswear any notion of bringing the Great War to our waterborne, sovereign, neutral country. As it happened, every sailor to whom we proposed these terms gave his immediate assent, though doubtless many prospective citizens were simply telling us what they knew we wanted to hear.

Being ill-equipped to deal with the severely maimed, we had to leave them to the colliers, even those unfortunates who desperately wanted to join us. I shall not soon forget the bobbing casualties of the Battle of Trindade. Even Major Butt and Colonel Weir had never seen such carnage. A boy - and they were all boys - with his lower jaw blasted away. Another boy with both hands burned off. An English lad whose severed legs floated alongside him like jettisoned oars. A German sailor whose sprung intestines encircled his midriff like some grisly life-preserver. The pen trembles in my hand. I can write no more.

* * * *

29 October 1914

Lat. 10°35 ‘S, Long. 38° 11’ W

Every day, fair or foul, the Great War chews up and spits out another ten thousand mothers’ sons, sometimes many more. Were the
Ada’s
scores of able-bodied Englishmen, Irishmen, Welshmen and Scotsmen to sail home now and repatriate themselves, the majority would probably wind up in the trenches. The beast needs feeding. As for those hundreds of young men who boarded the
Titanic
intending to settle in New York or Boston or perhaps even the Great Plains, they too are vulnerable, since it’s doubtless only a matter of months before President Wilson consigns several million Yanks to the Western Front.

And so it happens that a consensus concerning the present cataclysm has emerged amongst our population. I suspect we would have come to this view even without our experience of naval warfare. In any event, the Great War is not for us. We sincerely hope that the participating nations extract from the slaughter whatever their hearts desire: honour, glory, adventure, relief from ennui. But I think we’ll sit this one out.

Yesterday I held an emergency meeting with my capable Deputy Prime Minister, Mr Futrelle, my level-headed Minister of State, Mr Andrews, and my astute Minister of War, Major Butt. After deciding that the South Atlantic is entirely the wrong place for us to be, we set a north-westerly course, destination Central America. I can’t imagine how we’re going to get through the canal. Mrs Wilde assures me we’ll think of something. Lord, how I adore my wife. In January we’re expecting our first child. This happy phenomenon, I must confess, caught us completely by surprise, as Mrs Wilde is forty-six years old. Evidently our baby was meant to be.

* * * *

15 November 1914

Lat. 7°10’N, Long. 79°15’W

Mirabile dictu -
we’ve done it! Thanks to Mrs Astor’s diamond tiara, Mrs Guggenheim’s ruby necklace, and a dozen other such gewgaws, we managed to bribe, barter and wheedle our way from one side of the Isthmus of Panama to the other. Being a mere 110 feet side to side, the lock chambers barely accommodated our machine, but we nevertheless squeaked through.

The
Ada
is heading south-southwest, bound for the Galapagos Islands and the rolling blue sea beyond. I haven’t the remotest notion where we might end up, luscious Tahiti perhaps, or historic Pitcairn Island, or Pago Pago, or Samoa, and right now I don’t particularly care. What matters is that we are rid of both the Belle Époque and the darkling plain. Bring on the South Pacific, typhoons and all.

Night falls over the Gulf of Panama. By the gleam of my electric torch I am reading the
Oxford Book of English Verse.
Three stanzas by George Peele seem relevant to our situation. In the presence of Queen Elizabeth, an ancient warrior doffs his helmet, which “now shall make a hive for bees”. No longer able to fight, he proposes to serve Her Majesty in a different way. “Goddess, allow this aged man his right to be your beadsman now, that was your knight.” The poem is called “Farewell to Arms”, a sentiment to which we Battle of Trindade veterans respond with enthusiastic sympathy, though not for any reasons Mr Peele would recognize. Farewell, ignorant armies. Auf Wiedersehen, dreadful
Kronprinz Wilhelm.
Adieu, fatuous
Good Hope.
Hail and farewell.

I am master of a wondrous raft, and soon I shall be a father as well. Over two thousand pilgrims are in my keeping, and at present every soul is safe. Strange stars glitter in a stranger sky. Colonel Astor’s Airedale and Mr Harper’s Pekingese howl at the bright gibbous moon. The sea is calm tonight, and I am a very lucky man.